Just A Miracle Away
by Auttzthoughtz
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Title says the basis for it. A reunion that needs to happen; a love that needs to be admitted. Johnlock. SLASH.


Post-Reichenbach

John's POV

I walked up to Sherlock's tombstone for the first time since his funeral. It still wouldn't sink in. I could never believe that he's really dead.

Mrs. Hudson rambles on beside me, trying to clear her mind of the angst of the situation. When she takes the anger of her grief too far, I kindly ask her to leave. She nods her head solemnly, and walks away. I don't think she's even going to the car. I think she's calling a taxi.

I have no mind to pay to that anyways. I stand in front of a shiny black tombstone, staring at it harshly. I don't want to see it. I don't want to see the deeply carved letters of his name staring back at me. But I do. I feel my eyes sting with tears.

I talk to the tombstone. Something in my mind should be telling me to shut up. He can't hear me. But I can't help it. I wouldn't tell my therapist what I didn't get to finish telling Sherlock. But, dam nit, even if he isn't standing right here in front of me…I will tell him.

I tell him that I would never believe a word he said about being a fake. I tell him that I believed that he was more human and fantastic than anyone else I'd ever met, no matter what anybody else told him to the contrary.

Then, I said one last thing, sobbing through my words. "I was so alone... and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop _this..."_

With that, I raise my hand to wipe away my tears, and start walking back to the car. I can't even believe that Mrs. Hudson would leave without her car, but I can't take the time to focus too hard on that fact. The good part is that she isn't here, and even with my newly-returning bad leg, I could use the lone drive home.

I climb into the seat, and pull over my seatbelt. I go to adjust the rear-view mirror, and that's when I swear I could feel my heart stop. The reflection in the mirror was Sherlock, sitting patiently in the back seat. I took a deep breath, coming slowly back to reality, knowing this is a figment of my imagination. I close my eyes, and start speaking to myself. "John, this is far too early to be going crazy."

I hear a short laugh from behind me, and my heart constricts as it is so recognizably his. "On the bright side, John, it's quite possible you were crazy before all of this. That should be part of the definition for someone that is calmed by the prospects of danger and death threats."

I smile weakly, feebly thinking about how the short time with Sherlock lead to my imagination bringing him to such full colour. "And you're any better?"

I look back, and watch Sherlock fold his hands together sheepishly. "I never said that I was. Not that it's truly an issue, considering people seem to be lost without my obnoxiously strange form of genius to guide them along."

"You're very right about that." I said solemnly, staring blankly out the window. I don't know how much longer my imagination will decide to torment me like this. It's just a sorry tease, and it's brutal, and it hurts, and-

Sherlock cut off that train of thought. "John, I know this must be strange to you, but I must explain something. Firstly, I am not as you are so blatantly assuming right now a figment of your imagination. If I were, I don't think you'd imagine me here."

I scowled, now turning in my seat to address him. Or, it. Or, the figment. I am not clear yet on what in the hell is going on. "I couldn't imagine that I wouldn't be imagining you here right now. I just visited you, Sherlock. It's a prime time for this to happen. I miss you, you know? It kills me, Sherlock, every day. You know my limp has come back, and I am stuck alone where we both used to live, and I have nothing to preoccupy me because I gave up everything for you?"

"John," Sherlock tried to interrupt me. I wasn't having it.

I shook my head. "No, I don't care if you're not real. I need to say this. I don't know when or why it happened to me Sherlock, but somehow, you became the only relevant person in my life. And, I think maybe that you might have though sort of the same for me. All we had was each other, and now I am alone here, and I can't believe you made me watch you die. Why'd you leave me here alone?"

It came more clear to me that this was an illusion. It had to be. Sherlock had what looked like tears in his eyes. "Come back here for a moment."

"Why? I mean, how crazy am I going to have to go before I accept that you are gone?" I asked, choking on sobs through my words.

"Humour me, please, John." Sherlock said, moving over and patting the seat beside him.

Bloody hell, I must be completely bonkers. I pulled off my seatbelt slowly, opened my door, climbed out of my seat and into the one beside him, with the loud slam of the door behind me.

"What now?" I ask hesitantly.

Sherlock smiled slowly. "Well, I believe you did ask for one last miracle…and though I needed to go away to keep you safe, I really couldn't watch you have to believe that everything had been lost."

"You're kidding. And, you're not real, so I am making cruel jokes to myself." I said slowly, putting my head in my hands.

"John," Sherlock said slowly, and then I felt his hands around mine, pulling them away from my face. I stared at him in utter silence, and shock, and hurt, and a million other emotions that were threatening to surface. "I'm really here. I'm not dead. Isn't that what you wanted? For me not to be dead?"

My head was reeling as I spoke, and I was choking on sobs as I tried to speak to him. "I…saw…you. Sherlock, I was there. I was on the phone with you one moment, and then, I saw you jump from the building. I ran to you, and there was so much blood. I pronounced you dead, Sherlock. I buried you! There's no way that I haven't gone madly insane."

Sherlock shook his head. "It took quite a bit of help from Molly to pull off the charade, but it had to be done."

"Why?" I asked, looking away and closing my eyes tightly.

Sherlock sighed. "Moriarty had me trapped, John. He said that if I played his game, everyone would be safe. The final thing he wanted from me was for me to die, especially considering that it went into his whole complex with trying to convince me that we were two of the same."

Sherlock paused and took a deep breath. "I anticipated it, so I had a plan. But, I thought I wouldn't even have to go through with it. I thought that maybe I could convince him against it. I thought that I would make a deal with him, and run downstairs and go apologize to lying to you about Mrs. Hudson. You must understand everything had its purpose here."

"How do you mean, Sherlock?" I asked in a whisper.

Sherlock had a very serious look on his face as he spoke again. "I did it for you."

"What?" I asked incredulously.

"Moriarty told me that if I didn't jump, or he didn't call them off, guns men would kill each of the people I care most for. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and you…John, I couldn't let that happen. Please understand this is difficult for me to say, so you will have to excuse that I may be making less sense than usual-,"

"For godsakes Sherlock, I forgive you. I don't know if I believe you, or any of this, or the fact that you are even here right now…but I forgive you, okay?" I said, feeling tears stream down my face.

Sherlock, in what I could tell by the look on his face was a much unanticipated snap-decision, took action. He leaned forward, and he pressed his lips to mine. He wanted me so badly to believe he was really there, and that his story was really true, that he was here kissing me. And as it registered into my brain, and the fact that everything was true sunk in, I found myself kissing him back. I let my eyes flutter shut, and I moved one of my hands away from his to get a firm grip on his hair.

I could've sworn I heard him moan, and he used his free arm to yank me closer to him. When we pulled away for breath, I could see a sly smile on his face. "You know, it's times like these that I don't even understand how or why I can maintain such restraint as I do in everyday course."

With that comment, I burst out laughing. So did Sherlock. And, it felt absolutely wonderful. We were laughing together, clutched so closely that we could each feel the vibration of each other's bodies as the laughter consumed us. It was when we stopped that I couldn't help myself from speaking up.

"I don't know if you've figured this out yet. But, I figure this is the best time to tell you…considering with the slight chance left that this isn't real, I want to be able to say this now." Sherlock scoffed, but after me shooting him a certain look, he calmed and heard me out. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I don't know when or why, but I need you and I miss you and I love you. And, if this isn't real, it might just kill me."

I felt Sherlock moving back, and I internally cursed. I wasn't ready for this to be over. "Sherlock?"

"What I am I supposed to do to make you understand? How are you so stubborn that you can't even believe me? And, I knew you were not as smart as me John, but I thought that you had some sort of brain in there somewhere. How could you not have possibly deduced by now that I love you too?"

I didn't think I had the courage in me to say what I said next. But, I did. And, thank heavens I did. "Prove it."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"I know very well by the look on your face that you heard me well, Sherlock."

Sherlock paused, staring at me wide-eyed. "How?"

I slinked back from sitting up to lying back on the seats, letting my legs lazily wrap around Sherlock as I did so. "I think you know that, too."

Sherlock then moved a bit, and laid over me. He leaned his lips to my ear, and whispered. "Are you sure? I mean, I don't really know what to do here. I don't know if you've realised that my genius doesn't range into this area of expertise."

I smiled gently as I looked up into his eyes. "I have happened to notice that you haven't had any…expertise on this subject. But, I just, need to know this is all real. Just, follow your instincts. I think that should bode well."

Sherlock stared at me uncertainly for a moment, before curtly nodding. He leaned down, and his lips were finally on mine again. It was my turn to moan into the kiss, as I took my one hand and tangled it in his hair. As the kissing became more frantic, and open-mouthed, and glorious, I moved my other hand down and grasped Sherlock's arse.

Instead of yanking himself away like I thought he would, he took it as encouragement. He lowered himself to be completely pressed against me, and started rutting our clothed pricks against one another. I felt like everything was just spinning, and completely ruined and perfected all at the same time. He moved his hands around from where he had placed them deftly on my hips to cup my arse, and that's when it was both of us mercilessly rutting against each other, moaning into each other's lips and tangling tongues in a perfect compromise.

When we again pulled away for breath, I saw Sherlock intensely scanning over me. I laughed softly. "It shouldn't take too much deduction to figure out that you're doing well, Sherlock."

He smiled gently. "What do you think? Am I just a natural genius at everything?"

For the first time in the history of his talking to me about his intelligence, this is the first time I had ever heard anything but the gravest sincerity. He was sitting there, grinning like the madman he is, joking about his intelligence. It just made things that much more perfect.

"I suppose so. But there might be a slight problem." I said, smirking.

Sherlock looked me up and down once more, a devious smirk countering my own. "By that you must mean that these devilish clothes are in the way, am I correct?" I nodded firmly, not being able to keep a straight face as his one hand wandered and the other was kneading my arse firmly. He moved his hands up to undue my trousers, and yanked them and my pants down in one deft yank. I bit my lip as I watched Sherlock observed the newly-revealed parts of me carefully.

I yanked off my shirt and jacket quickly, wondering if Sherlock was simply too engaged in his own mind to notice. That thought was made unthreaded as his eyes quickly flickered up to meet mine. "I thought I was going to do that?"

His voice sounded many octaves deeper than usual, and his hair was messy and falling in his face by my hands. "I thought I'd help. And, while I'm at it…"

Sherlock seemed annoyed momentarily as I didn't finish my sentence, but was easily contented as I showed him instead. I quickly undid his trousers, and pulled both those and his pants down. I couldn't suppress a moan.

Sherlock just smirked at me, and I had to roll my eyes at his usual over-confidence. I did away quickly with his coat, and his shirt. I grinned as I realized that I skimmed over his scarf. Other than his signature scarf, Sherlock was hovering above me naked. Shit, I now am back to the theory of this not being real. And, within seconds, Sherlock seems to have registered that the thought has entered my brain.

"Stop it, John," Sherlock says as he fully presses himself down against me again, "I'm really here."

It still hurts. It still kills me. I can still see him on the roof, staring down at me on his phone, telling me that his 'note' was to be talking to me over that. I watched him jump. I couldn't stop him. I turned over his limp body, and his brain was splattered across the floor. His eyes were stuck open from impact. He was gone. I was sobbing hard in the arms of strangers, who each were willing me not to throw myself onto the ground beside him and clutch what was left of him close to me.

Now it was almost impossible to believe that Sherlock was here again. No matter how much I felt what I felt, and I heard his voice telling me so, it hurt to think that this was so unreal. Tears began streaming down my face, and Sherlock just watched me in alarm. "John? Please, don't cry. What can I do to make this better?"

I laughed weakly, looking up at Sherlock warily. "You're actually asking me advice on something seriously? This can't be real."

Sherlock couldn't even look at me anymore. It was another point that made me wonder if he was going to disappear again. He did something quite to the contrary. He pulled off his scarf, and then wrapped it around my neck softly. The fabric felt so foreign, for even in life, Sherlock had never let me go near wearing his scarf. Sherlock followed that action by scooting down and laying his head on my shoulder.

"Did it ever occur to you that it hurt for me too?" Sherlock started, lazily scanning my body with his hands as he spoke. "I not only had to watch the only person in the world I love go through agony as he pronounced me dead, and have to lose everything I have worked for because of some lunatic…and to top it all off, I was going to have to leave it all behind to keep you safe. Not that I truly minded being alone once, but after you came along, I didn't want to have to let you go. I don't know how to convince you of any of this being real right now, because it's frustrating, you're having me deal with so many areas today that my genius doesn't reach."

"I'm sorry that you're bloody uncomfortable, Sherlock, I really am. But, after what I watched, could you blame me for being a skeptic?" I said, running my fingers slowly through his hair. "And, I thought we established that you were doing well?" I laughed slightly as I motioned to the fact that we were both still aroused.

"John Hamish Watson, you are insatiable." Sherlock said, moving up and hover his face over mine, and _dear God, _to move his hands over my arse again. This time though, one of the hands moved between, and I had to bite my lip to stop from moaning. Sherlock was a daft liar. He was a virgin, but he was no idiot when it came to this.

Shite. Sherlock Holmes is a virgin. Is this really how he wants his first time? In angst over a fake-suicide, trying to convince his broken friend that he is real? If this is real, and he does this, would I be just totally in the wrong?

"Sherlock, are you sure-?"

Sherlock looked up, openly glaring at me. "John, make up your mind. You either really want and need this, or you want me to be fake and I can just leave and let you think this was all pretend."

"Sherlock, there's nothing I want more than to have you just take me right now," I began slowly.

"Then what is the dilemma? Is it some sort of moral-," Sherlock paused. That's when I knew it hit him. He smiled gently at me, and reached up to brush hair out of my face. "You're worried about how this is my first time, and how I shall remember it? John, let me tell you something that I am more than certain even you already know. It doesn't matter the circumstances, or the place, or the time. The only way that the first time will be dignified with good memory is with someone you love. I don't know how much further to explain, but I will extend to you that there would be no disappointment if this happens now in the long run. Plus, if first time is a bust, we could always have a world of opportunities to try again?"

"Sherlock, what have you done to my logical mind?" I asked humorously.

Sherlock shrugged. "In my defence, I don't know if you had one before I came about."

With that, we were playfully shoving at each other. Then, Sherlock gave up and fell back into my arms, and onto my lips. We kissed passionately as his hands resumed their actions, and he quickly reached one hand over to use to prepare me. One finger at a time, and by the time he hit the third, I was beyond caring how I sounded. I wanted him to just get on with it already. Hadn't we waited long enough for this?

"Sherlock, I swear to the sodding heavens, if you don't shag me right now…"

Sherlock laughed. "I quite like reducing you to even less intelligence than usual. It's fascinating, and it's in my favor, and you're reactions are exhilarating."

"As long as you don't start taking notes, it's in both our favor." I said, then pausing to whine incorrigibly as he pulled away his fingers. I narrowed my eyes at him, and then as I watched his next move, everything melted away. He was grabbing my legs, and yanking them around his waist very eagerly, leaving his prick barely grazing my entrance.

He stayed there for a long time, too long. I could tell he was studying everything about this act, the reactions, everything. He was incredibly focused on his arousal as well, obviously; however, he studied every inch as if there was going to be a quiz afterward.

However, I wasn't feeling too patient anymore, and decided to take things into my own hands. I poised my hands over Sherlock's shoulders, and I slowly lowered myself down onto his prick. It should feel painful, but all I could feel was _good_. It may have affected my judgement a bit of the act by hearing the strangled noise of relentless pleasure that ripped through Sherlock.

He gazed up at me, and his eyes were impossibly darker now. Somehow, I knew deducing the activity was going to be the last thing on his mind. He was completely focused, and his intense gaze kept baring deep into my own eyes. I took a deep breath, and whispered to him.

"Show me."

He held his hands on my arse once more, and as he leaned down to kiss my neck harshly enough to leave marks, he started thrusting. I moved along with him part of the time, which he had a positive response to. But, most of it, I was just so entirely focused on his to do much of anything. Well, anything that is, other than leaving claw marks into his shoulder blades. Somehow, I knew he didn't mind that either. This was probably the softest fantasy of one Sherlock Holmes, and that was something I would find out from personal experience eventually. For now, this was perfect.

That's all I knew. He moved so well, and he buried himself so deep within me. All I needed was to feel him, and to never have this feeling go away. I wanted to always feel like this: full, complete, Sher-locked.

He moved faster at my request, and he kept brushing just the right spot. I arched my back off of the seats and further into him, openly rutting myself against him, desperate for release. He leaned down to take my lips with his, and grabbed my prick. It wasn't much longer, with his thrusting and his handling, that I came undone. It took moments for him to follow, as I clenched the muscles that surrounded him.

When we both were down from our wonderful highs, Sherlock pulled out slowly and laid back down where he had before this had all begun. In a breathless voice, he asked: "Do you believe me now? Or, do you need more proof?"

I raised an eyebrow, smiling down at him. "What exactly would you do if I said I wanted more proof right now?"

Sherlock laughed breathlessly. "I'd say you need to give me a couple of minutes."

"Tempting, but I am convinced." I said, laughing as Sherlock cuddled into my chest more tightly.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Good, because that was more exhausting than I had thought it would be."

I laughed, yet again bringing my hand down to play with his hair. He moaned softly, and it made me laugh harder. "And, you were talking about my reactions being exuberant?"

"I'm completely new to this, what's your excuse?" Sherlock said, clearly flustered.

I kissed his forehead gently, and then gazed down into his beautiful dark eyes. "It was my first time with you."

"I guess that must count for something. An extraordinary genius that came back only to have a natural talent for what you needed from him-?"

"Sherlock, can we not argue or boast for now, and just enjoy this for a moment?" I asked quickly.

Sherlock actually rolled his eyes at me. "I don't think it'd be as fun if we didn't argue or play the way we do. Do you not agree?"

I laughed softly. "I guess not. We have a lot to do, though, you know. Mrs. Hudson will need her car back sooner than later, and I need to sneak you back into our place, and then I need to convince Lestrade to chat with us over the nonsense that was of Moriarty's fault…"

"Or, you know, we could just leave…"

"You want to leave London with me?" I asked incredulously. Then, my voice softened as it sunk in. "You want to run away with me?"

"I was going to have to run away anyways, and unless you want to spend the rest of your life harbouring me here as a fugitive, then yes. I am asking you to run away with me. Please." Sherlock said far too quickly, showing that he was nervous about the question.

"Are you sure you really want me to come with you?" I asked, still a little shell-shocked.

Sherlock kissed my neck once gently, and then again, and again. Then, he looked up at me with a very sad expression across his face. "I think it'd kill me if you didn't."

"How far do you want to go?" I asked, smiling through and through.

Sherlock wore an even bigger smile, not even caring anymore about looking as if he was above me. "Anywhere. Let's go grab our things, and you can leave a note for Mrs. Hudson, and we can go anywhere. Do anything. Together."

We both agreed on that plan, and quickly dressed ourselves. And, we cleaned Mrs. Hudson's car. We had made quite a mess. Then, it was off for the last time to 221b Baker Street. In the dead of the night, when no one would notice, we were there for the very last time.

When we walked upstairs and arrived inside the flat, Sherlock made a very blunt comment. "Too bad we don't have time, otherwise I'd take you here and now…for old time's sake, of course."

To which, I replied: "Look now who's insatiable."

I winked at him, and he just rolled his eyes and went to work. "Now, John, keep in mind to only bring the small necessities. We may have to run with whatever we carry, mind you."

He handed me one of two knapsacks, which we each took one of to carry some belongings.

The first thing Sherlock tried to pack was the skull from the mantel, and I shot him a look.

"He helps me think," Sherlock stated bluntly.

"That's what your scarf and I are for," I said, grasping the scarf he left around my neck, "I mean to warn you, I think I might keep this though."

Sherlock shot me a death glare for a few seconds. Then, his gaze softened, and he came forward to grip a side of the scarf for a few moments. "As long as you're around, I get to keep you both. Problem solved."

I walked away with a gentle smile, revelling at this apartment for the last time. Sherlock was right, if we had the time or luxury, I would have him ravish me in every single corner of this place. Why? The memories here are ones I never want to lose, of getting to know the real Sherlock behind the Holmes.

I grabbed an extra outfit or two, and then came back into the front room to see that Sherlock had only packed the same necessities that I had. Plus, he had packed the hat from Lestrade and a hairpin of Molly's and a recipe from Mrs. Hudson and the phone from Adler. All the memories he couldn't bear to forget. Neither could I, quite frankly.

I packed a few extras myself: a piece of the wallpaper that Sherlock had once used as a smiley-faced gun target out of boredom; a photo of the whole group of us at Christmas time; the old articles from each of the cases that Sherlock had been involved with alongside me; and, last but not least-

Sherlock had beaten me to reaching my desk. He sat astride the chair, a familiar piece of parchment in hand. I sucked in a harsh breath, knowing he'd already read it over about twelve times: my suicide note.

He looked drained completely of color, and he gripped the edges of the parcel so hard I thought it'd rip. Then, I looked on the desk. He'd found my whole collection of notes. Every single one I had wrote, from every single time I had almost…and he'd already read and deduced each one.

"John," Sherlock said, in an awfully choked voice.

He paused for a few minutes, staring at the parcel in his hand, tears starting to stream down his cheeks. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"If I knew that I was going to go through with it, any of those times, you would have figured it out," I said softly, kneeling in front of him and putting my hands on his knees.

"But I never knew, John. Sure, I thought I was insufferable. But, to have that many notes, John? To have thought about it that many times, John?" He choked on his words, openly sobbing. "Are you sure you love me, because this doesn't seem like something a man in love would do. This seems like what a man in a bloody awful relationship would do."

"You didn't look at the dates on the letters then, did you?" I asked, laughing softly.

He looked at me curiously. "What do you mean by that?"

"None of these were your fault Sherlock. There was many before I even met you, because I couldn't handle the strain anymore. Every night, Sherlock, I wrote a new letter. And, every night, I cursed at myself for being too much of a coward to just pull the damn trigger."

I took a deep breath, and smiled weakly. "Then, I met you. And, I swear, most nights things were better. Most nights, I forgot that gun was lying in that drawer awaiting me to use it. The first time here was after the whole fiasco over the hairpiece. We almost got a girl killed, and it was my entire fault, for being selfish enough to try to have outside friends in my life. I wrote a letter that night, and I stared at it for a long while. And, just as I was about to pull out the gun, you walked in and started rambling on about something nonsensical. Then I laughed, I forgot, and stored the letter away.

"Then, Sherlock, the next time was obvious. It was after the kidnapping. I couldn't handle the pain that I endured upon being captured, tortured, and then strapped over with bombs."

Sherlock made me stop there. "Tortured?"

My eyes widened, remembering that I had intentionally decided to hide that fact from Sherlock long ago. Moriarty had encouraged me to flaunt the scars in Sherlock's face, and show him he was at fault. I couldn't bear the thought of hurting Sherlock more, after he was so distraught at being at fault for having me captured in the first place. "Sherlock, please, don't."

"Don't? You know, if that bastard wasn't already dead, I'd kill him." Sherlock said, gritting his teeth together too fiercely. "That was the second time while you were here, then?"

"Yes. It was. Not that it would've ever gone through anyways, with you hovering over my shoulder constantly with apologies." I said wistfully.

"Well, it was my fault," Sherlock said slowly, "I didn't even know the half of it, apparently. I thought those were war-scars…"

"In a way, they were. It was a war worth fighting for." I said gently, laying my head on his knee. He tangled his hand in my hair, and asked me gently about the next time. I took a deep breath. "Once was when I thought you were going to do it, for Adler's sake. Then, the last time, that's the note in your hand. You know already."

"You wrote it this morning," Sherlock said gently, "I can feel the ink is still wet; and the words…they suggest you had already given up hope." He took a deep breath. "You shouldn't have thought to do this because…"

"What else was I to think to do?" I said, closing my eyes firmly and dreading the answer.

Sherlock choked on his sobs. "You could have waited for me. If I hadn't waited for you in the car, and decided to come here tonight like I'd originally planned, it would've been too late."

I pulled my head off of Sherlock's knees, and stood to my feet. Then, I moved forward, straddled him gently and sat in his lap. I laid my head on his shoulder, and sighed at the feel of his arms surrounding me. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"I did the same thing to you, except worse, except not if I hadn't gotten here," Sherlock's words were muffled by my shirt, as his face was tucked deeply into my shoulder. "I think we should just go, and forget this place, and forget that we never both almost died."

I nodded, and slowly climbed off of Sherlock. I reached out my hand, and he grasped my hand and used my support to pull himself up. He wrapped himself once tightly into my arms. I laughed gently, thinking about what I used to say to things like this. I felt it needed to be said one last time. "Sherlock, people will talk."

He yanks back, with his hands on my shoulders firmly, smiling brightly at me. "Yes, but it won't matter, because by then we'll be far gone…and a whole new city will be worrying about us."

"I suppose you're right." I said quickly, yanking him in for one more, quick kiss.

We each grabbed a bag, and stood at the doorframe. "This is goodbye."

"To 221b Baker Street," I began, smiling gently, "I never knew why I came here at first. All I knew was that there was an insane man that wanted me around from halfway through day one. Then, you were where we came home to after every single fight and adventure. You built what we have from the bottom, keeping us together through it all. To 221b Baker Street: no matter where else we travel and live, this will always be our home."

Sherlock nodded, grabbed my hand, and suddenly we were running. We were running down the stairs, and out the door, and down the streets into a new place, and a new world, and a new life.

We didn't see Mrs. Hudson watch us from her window, knowing that the last note from the bunch I'd left lying on the desk was merely my escape route. It didn't matter. She wouldn't say a thing against us. It turns out that this is what she had wanted for us all along. She wanted us to be free.

We didn't hear the bustle in the police station as Lestrade was packing up his last belongings, and heading out of the station for good. He hadn't been fired, you see. He had quit after what he was solely convinced was the wrong-doing of the department against the innocent and brilliant man that was Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade would find another department, or another job. He'd find somewhere, sometime soon, that would satisfy the real good that was inside him. We didn't see him walk out of the station at the exact moment that we were running past, or hear him laughing happily behind us.

We didn't hear Molly finishing up and closing work for the day. She had spent another day worrying about us, little did we know. I hadn't even known that Molly had been trying to contact me for days. I would never know that she was trying to reach me, trying to tell me the truth about what happened with Sherlock. I didn't know that she hadn't slept since the posed-accident. Then, we didn't see as she walked out of the building, and saw us. We didn't hear her sign of relief, or see her smile brightly.

One day, perhaps, we will write these people back. Someday, their support will not go unnoticed. But, until the day comes that they won't get ridiculed for supporting us, we will be gone from this place.


End file.
